ten words, to sum up
this magnificent morning
                      
                      feels...mise­rly

words... skitter ...flit
across my mind
but they are ..flighty
little blighters
and i cannot ..grasp.. them

scrabbling... whickering
secretive.  things far..to
agile ....for the sluggish
...nature ...i bring... to bear
with me today..

i had hoped, it was just
a need for stimuli, coffee,
or an intelligent conversation
...but.... it appears not.

i have had ....copious amounts of the former
and am... still struggling to find a.. smidgen ..of the latter
(in honesty, i am not holding up my end, of the disementary
discourse association, with aplomb either.)

i ...fear sleep deprivation... is the ...ultimate ..victor of
                    ....this day doings.

and... i ...slave to the clock ..........plodding... on through....
dreary and disconsolate ...until it has wound....
it's ticking hands....
     .....      .....      down to
the final ....moment···

tick, tick, tick, and so on··÷
and so forth~·~

we go now
to the place
of  solemnity
all three
of us
together

we go
to place
memories
wrapped in
flower petals
on the doorstep
of your afterhouse

we talk
in hushed tones
to the motes
of dust that
sparkle in
the sunlight
hoping they
will carry
our news
to you

we water
the grass
that covers
your afterhouse
with salted tears
hoping they will
carry our love to
your landlocked bones

we hold hands
believing that
you see our
togetherness
and take solace
in it...

we go back
to the everyday
leaving you behind
with these little
particles of ourseleves
called sorrow

they are your substance
until next we come

and in this day
there is fulfillment

the sun has arrived
on cue.

and birds chirk

and dew sits diamond like
on green, green grass

and the mailboxis
collared by string
attatched to a bright red
balloon

drinks glisten in plastic cups
sauasge rolls warm in the oven
the chicken wings are in there too


bowls of lollies await consumption
and knicknacks are wrapped in
yesterday's news

today another year
rolls on bye
seems to this mother
in less than a blink
of an eye

gifts unwrapped
and a puppy
named Snap


pictures taken
measurement on the
kitchen door jamb

he grows
tall and strong


but still
and forever
my little man

and then in
the Land of April
there was a
foolish fool
who did not
quite have either
the werewithal
or the the tools
to ably prank,
the citizens
of his town,
those citizens
did feel
awfully
let down by
the foolish fool
they often
thought
they may be
better served
by a mule
so after
much thought
they caught
a wild mule
dressed him
in a tutu
of tulle
and a paper
crown
and made
him
the ruler
of the
foolish fools
foolish town
the foolish fool
gave up his
foolhardly ways
and became
the keeper
of King Mules
royal maze

this old teak farmhouse creaks this morning.
like an old woman settling into her favourite chair.
we will need to paint again soon,
the coastal wind abraids
her seascape blueskin
and the sun, bleaches it
to a faded blue grey.

she has seen so much,
when they first cleared
the land on the rise of the cliff.

she was the only house for miles and she watched
the farmer's cows stand placid accepting of the buffeting wind as they chewed their cud.

she watched the slow encroachment of the town on her fertile red loamed pastures.
as tall white ghost gums and norfolk pine trees,
gave way to squat ugly houses and box like apartments.
stacking families atop families.
she saw horse tracks
turn to black ribbons of rock and tar,
the neighing clopping rhythm
become buzzing booming honking discord.

she watched families,
come and go,
loving, living, dying and all the life and strife in between.

she is solid still,
she was built to withstand, man's mark upon the everchanging land.

she is our patch of love now, we have the upkeep of her care.
but inside her snug old walls we known she carries
the tales of times long past and will with time keep
our families secrets just as well,
we are but passing through she as creaky as she is,
will be here standing, watching after we have moved on.

forming the letters
of the words
that describe
my love
for you
is beyond
my mental
mettle tonight
so i lean over
and kiss your
sleeping brow
and  leave love
and salt tears
on your warm skin

grasshopper poised
to make the leap
of it's life
but slips
cartwheels
and lands
on it's back
nature smiles
as theleaf dappled sun
strikes it's body
with gentle grace

what is this thing
between us
that changes grey
to light
that makes words simple
create the world aright
that whispers life
in the listening ear
that makes dreams
long forgot
dance delightfully near...

it smooths the world's
wrinkles and makes
the days, fly by....

what is this thing,
that burrows down, down
into my heart.
and seeds and grows
a garden...full of flowering
words...
and trees of  treacle toffee
and anything i please...

this thing.....this love
is my life longs day...
           the day that is always
                       blessed..

the salt of the sea
calls to me...
it is time,

it is time,
for re-immersion
it is time,
to revitalize
your winter, wearied soul

come little being.....
be swaddled in my watery folds

be bold,
my little one....
tho the water, may be cold

my friend....
the sun shall
warm your skin
and in my depths
you know you will find,
joys untold.

i take my towel and heed,
the whispers of the waves.

for me....
my summer's soul
to brave, the tang  
and crisp, cool clarity,
to redeem my sanity.

i walk, run, and
dolphin dive past
the breakers,
into the depths
of watered reality.

what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until ..... until....

the leaves are beginning to turn
the tips just edged with the glory
of colour

in the early morning air
that crisp nip
gnawing away at summer

and the birds are beginning to leave or forage for warm nesting

the little blucat, watches this
activity from the comfort
of the warm window ledges
in the sun room,
before dozing once more
head pressed to the warm glass

bewildered,
confused,
where did it go?
alienated,
dogday tired,
just all gone, gone, gone.
confounded,
out of place,
it was here, i left it right here.
muddled, jumbled, befuddled,
jumble thoughted,
stumble stepped,
tangle, tousled,
perturbed, perplexed,
just downright baffled,
snarled up, sixways, sideways
why is'nt it where i left it, dumbfounded, disconnected, dazed,
so discombobulated,
i am about to be,
bedlamized...
i could swear,
i left my youth right there,
on the hall table,
next to the car keys....
but now it is gone...
........and i am left bereft.

back to ink
and paper
told you
i was obsessed

brain to ink
ink to paper
paper to eyes
eyes to soul
soul to sky
sky to rain
rain to tree
tree to mill
mill to paper
paper to poet
poet to brain
brain to ink
ink to paper

i sit and watch,
the dust motes dance
in the stream of sunlight

the computer hums and burbles
like and old friend, intent on
sharing the latest gossip

last years detrius of papers
and unfinished lists, new job lists
teeter in the corner....

my backside has again grown
a size too ample,
for my ergonomic  chair

my brain is lax and lazy
slow to grind into gear....

this is the awkward,
i don't want to be here
start to the years marathon

it is the organizing of details
the preparation of the course

it is meetings and more meetings
dull, dry, academic, with others who
are in the same boat, those who want to
change course midstream, those who want to
tread water and those who are new to the game
rowing in circles with much enthusiasm, but little boatcraft


i, at present am resting oars, knowing this is the first
of many races, knowing the course, tho set, will change
when the students arrive, it is then the rapids come into play
and it is then, my energy, is required.

til then i cruise
and drink copious amounts of caffiene
in my air conditioned office....
watching the air, take dust motes,
for a ride.

Today I am
Jagged pieces of broken glass
Shattered by happenstance
Words meant in jest
Have pierced my marrow
and now I await
the world to turn again
witth tears  carressing
cheeks...

My pebble fractured
I must again wait the working
of the waters way
and become once again
Smaller in this place

This is the opposite turn
Of the waters wheel

This is the cracking
of the foundation

This is.......
                   reformation.....
                                              and
                                                      ..... reclaimation


of a damaged soul.

five thousand hearts.
turned, from grey to red.
so to all who made my day.
made my heart, poetic.
beat, a little less grey
some karmic grattitude,
i send your way...

Redemption has no currency
in the holiday nation
young men thank the executors
for small kindness'
as the await the bullets flight

they do not deny the wrongness
of youthful days...
but have learnt, and changed their ways
they do not expect freedom
they understand the debt to be paid
but their unrequited wish is for more  days.

they now travel to their destiny's end
at a small island paradise and the
end of a guns barrel

redemption has no currency....
Redemption has no currency.

the bones in me
seek out the sun today
desiring of,
it's warmth and nourishment

the rest of me follows
blindly  along.
i have always been one,
to accede to need

i am done with work,
for a week or two.
so, i sit in the park
and watch the human zoo.

with the sun,
beaming down
in gentle dismay,
over the seemingly,
awkward disarray
of poeple, dogs and birds,
(mostly pigeons),scattered everywhere.

when you and i...
are apart, for a longer
length of time
i find....

i am a lop-sided,
mis-shapen thing.
stumbling along..
a straight and
narrow road.


simple things,
take more time
and difficult things,
are well... too...difficult.

it is not that,
i can't cope.
i do....
but life has,
become more
of a chore.
and less, of a game.

and it is the seperation.

i blame,
for the colours
becoming dull,
for the words
lacking purpose,
for the heart
beating  too slowly,
for the sun
losing it shine,
and food, it's taste.

and for me,
becoming a....
whinging, whining
waste of space!

lop-sidely,
stumble-grumbling,
along....

i  detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box  with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on

but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....

my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote

i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens  and never-were's

yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...

god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone

it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to  the roots
of my tidily packaged fears

and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift

and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an  overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped  hard
into the ground...

and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving  sacred ground.

grumble, rumble, crack.
god in heaven, stretching his back


spit, splat, splosh
out goes god's bathwater
with a great heaving toss

wind blow, seas squall
rivers rise,  mud forms
oh gosh what a summer storm

lightning forks in the sky
jagged streaks,
thunder speaks,
from clouds of grey
glad i'm home,come what may
on this sultry stormy summers day

i rest my hand lightly on your chest,
the crisp grey blond curls tickle my palm.

this is not invitation, not yet.

but a need to feel your essential substance underneath my fingertips.
i move to rest my head, my ear hovering
near your heart's steadying rhythm.
at counterpoint to the waves on from beach below.
you cup my face in your large carpenter's hands
and draw my head away from your drumbeat's base.
gentle calluses graze my cheeks.
your face, now in my curls inhaling me,
my thoughts, my grace.

we lean, into together emeshed, entwined,
ensnared.

we are our foundation pillars and piers.
we assay each other finding
the potch and opal dross and gold.
we accept the measure, allay the fears.

two seperate. two complete.
bound together.
made one.
intricate in design and blueprint.
layer by layer,
baggage and taught lies are lost,
forgotten and sundered.
we revived hearts atrophied, critical and dead. shifted paradigms, opened heads,
rehashed, reworked, rewired.
reawoke the sleeping giants,
found truth and honesty
and love and grace.

took a liking to this unkown place.
created gardens, from thought, tumbled weeds. we sought and saved and watered wilted needs.
our house, our home now, built strong
and stable.

we lean into together emeshed, entwined, ensnared,

your gentle calluses brush my cheeks,
finding salted water.
your deep rumbling resonance,
mumbles into my curly locks
"you ok babe?"
i turn my face to yours,
seek your eyes, smile and reply
"just thinking beautiful thoughts"
and gift my lips to yours,
lovingly lingeringly,

this, now,

is an invitation.

we speak,
of love and living
and the love,
that endures, past life's giving.

we talk about,
loss and the cost
of bringing one
soul bright and
shining to another.

souls that intertwine
and grow together
into loves pasionate,
compassionate vine
.
we talk of cost
when one of the hybrid withers and dies.

we talk of love and lies,
one tells to empathise.
we talk,
we listen,
we cry and cry again.

we talk of what happens,
at and after the end.
we spill words
and salted water.
but still,
we know,
little to nothing,
except...

death, grief and mourning are the final scenes,
in this play, without a script. this sad, sorry improv, before, the epilogue and the exit to the next stages learning.

but we continue to speak,
we do not let silence reign.

because...
the thought of silence,
the thought of not being able to speak,
to share,
is simply
too....
unbearable.

my thoughts, to prosaic
for poetry today.

to many minute,
details in play.

too many red *****,
to be kept in the air.

that i must speak,
my words plainly
without, any flair.

today i must,
just plod
ever forward
with out, any fuss

and if by dint
of hard work and despair
i make the end
of the job list,
i get myself there.

only then i suppose
i may sit on my laurels
and begin to compose

but until then,
shoulder to boulder
and grinder to nose.

my thoughts to far prosaic
for frivelous and
self satisfied
wordplay, today.
to this course, i have chosen
true, i must stay....

imagine if you will...
as you sit and drink a brew
of leaf and water,
perhaps a sugar or two.

a book passed down,
from mother to daughter
much loved, much read
thoughts from inside
a poetic head...
of lover's crossed by stars.

and as you sit and drink and look,
imagine if you can,
the texture of the paper
the make a heavy gauge,
the ink so fine and black,
meandering in scripted lines
across the page.

and as you drink and look and read
of young love's joy and greed
and gentle lust and greenest jealousy
that gives cause to create trickery
only  to have true hearts  bleed
and lovers to pay the final cost
and pay the cost of love's mortality

and as you look and read and believe
the urgency, of the young lover's creed
your tears may fall and blend
with those that believed before
and if a tear you did not shed
then perhaps as others have
you will add a ring of tea.
as did they as they  partook
of a momentary escape
from the daily excess
of grind and toil and
travelled deep into the poets mind

and as you read and believe and dream
the pathways open and
the scenes are set
and you may find
the beginnings of book
to write, to beget,
or mayhap, just a fancy,
fledged and ready to take flight.
either way,
much was gained
from a cup of tea, brewed
and an old romantic book,
albeit tea-stained.

her light is dim,
her words are slow,
she ambles now.

no more for her,
the rat race.
no more,
the daily grind.

her food is mush,
she sits alseep, for hours,
in the warm sunshine.

no more hustle, nor
any hint of bustle.

she is stooped
and has made
an art,
of the acts of decline.

no more,
taking orders,
she, bides her own time.

she knows,
her coil is ending
and that, the gentle night
beckons.

but still she whines.

until shooshed and comforted and put up,
into bed.

this old dog, Bess
has lived,
long past her prime.

it is just a sense
of well- placed loyalty,
that keeps her mind
fixed on staying, here
with John...
way past her alloted time.

in the dim reaches
of the clouded night

at the time when the
old grandfather clock
has reached it's peak
and begins the downhill
run into another day

i sit in the summer heat
still, stullifying and steaming
with a bottle of *****
straight from the freezer

in the gloom i read the memories of the kitchen
table scuffs and scars
and pour a glass of
clear *****.....

take  a sip....and let
the russian coldness
flirt with my tongue
dance with my throat
and bellyflop...
                     into my stomach

out to see lightning strikes
a jagged rip in the sky
and i turn...and see
the two cats....
watching me ....drinking
*****....at one am...

tree
green
       knotty
      gnarled
               limbs
                      bark
                           rough
                           roots
                                  twigs
                   ­                 wood
                                          o­xygen
                        carbon-dioxide
                    ­                           xylem
                                                    leaf
  ­                                                        flower
  ­                                                                 ­  rings
                                                           ­                  seeds
                                                           ­                      earth
                                                           ­                              habitat
                                                         ­                                            timber
                                                          ­                                                  bole
          ­                                                                 ­                                 borers
                                                                ­                                                       sap
                                                             ­                                                          soil
                                                            ­                                                                 life
                                                            ­                                                                 ­    earth
                                                           ­                                                                 ­           trees
                                                           ­                                                                 ­         forrest
                                                         ­                                                                 ­             green
                                                           ­                                                                 ­              red
                                               ­                                                                 ­                 orange
                                                          ­                                                                 ­ autumnal
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                     livid
                                                           ­                                                                 ­            living
                                              ­                                                                 ­                     growing
                                    ­                                                                 ­                                      worlds

this indigo night
spreads diamonds like confetti
across the heavens

we move
             s-l-o-w-l-y
                            today
d
  r
   a
     g
       g
         i
          n
             g
                yesterdays excess
about, in still gurgling        
                                   tummies and pickled synapses....

even the boy, stagnates in
front of new videos....
we are lizards on the lounge
me pretending to be engrossed in a new book
him.....awaiting the first
ball of the cricket...

we are a boxed set of...
self induced apathy...
the day pearl grey and
crying....
                 forgives us our
                                        sloth....
as i hear my bed beckoning..

i am sorry.

i am sorry....
that peoples, of a different colour.
came from wherever,
upon great hulking ships
with sails of white
and humanity degraded,
lost beyond heaven's sight. and misunderstood
your nations and land.
your dreaming time,
and native life.

i am sorry ...
this caused, so much loss, death and strife

i am sorry...
with their need and conquering ways they,
over much time,
generations in fact.
showed you,
the indigineous so little grace.

i am sorry...
for the generations of death.

i am sorry ...
for the generation of lost.

so sorry ...
to those, still paying the cost and looking for family and clan.

i am sorry ...
for the, communities lies,
indifference and fear.

i am sorry ...
that still you suffer and die. younger, than you should.

but now......
you and i,
must become... we
and change the world,
with hard work and harmony.
we must make it, better, safer, healthier....

more...
education,
less preaching.
more...
mental health checks
less blame.
healthier ways of living. giving.....
knowledge goes both ways. more...
hope in a bright, bright future.
more...
consultation, understanding of language and ways.
less...
empty rhetoric and laywer's plays.

i am sorry ....
for the past.

but...
ultimately and completely hopeful...
for the future.

this is the time
of the year,
when the cold
asserts itself
and the near naked,
little blucat,
makes cocoons and nests,
under any towel,
jumper or rugs, left lying about.

we have learnt,
to pat the cushions on the couch,
to see if they meow....
and check the chimney,
before lighting, a new fire...

for if the days are grey
and bleak.....

gus will find warmth, somewhere, somehow.....

i once got all the way
to work....
and worked till lunchtime,
when in the comfort of my office.
...i opened up my, satchel
to find a little,
blue-grey kitten-cat,
curled up, around my thermos flask, of chicken noodle soup....
he was, soundly asleep,
i may add.
.
he will not be dressed
for this cold weather, squirming,out of coats
and specially knitted sweaters....

but will find places,
to nest and ride out
the cold snap.
only coming out....
when the fire has warmed the air...
or for furtive and hurried trips to dinner bowl
and litter tray...
before snuggling,
back into the cocoon
he has created.

this missive of love
scrawled upon the ether
little seeds like mustard or dandelion
spread upon the wind hoping above hope
to find landfall in hearts cracked asunder

this missive of love
humble but true
as love is and always should be
needs love too grow strong and big

it may not be much
but if added to
will compound upon itself
stand tall and become not shy
this missive of love must come
from both you and I
it must not be scared to whisper it's name
to those broken, shattered,
or under great strain

this missive of love, should be
like rain to parched ground
this missive of love should
be able to speak all languages
go all place, be scared not
of religion or races
should not hide it's face
nor be proud, but always,
always allow grace and time
to be it's partners

this missive of love is easy to write of
but the hardest of all to partake of
but it is now needed more and more
by those who have hearts burdened
and torn by the actions of zealots,
maddened and inflamed... men
and women who know not
this missive's name

this missive is my response
to this horror,this shame
this blight upon the world
in varying God's name

so as I sit and watch the sun rise
I send out this missive
to those that suffer
and those that grieve
to those that are so weary
that they wish only to leave
to those who seemingly stand alone
and those whose voices cry into the night
to men and women weeping this night
and to those who see no end to their plight

I send love and forgiveness
the ability to see,
the goodin the world
I send  the ability to  just be...

from this heart full of kindness
I send compassion and grace
I send hope and the stubborness
required to look this world
in it's face and see not the hurt
the grime, the commonplace
but to look beyond and see
the good, the beautiful, the need
for us, to grow the seeds of greatness

this missive of love, is small
and may if ignored
make no difference at all
but if taken in and given space
it may well be a fresh start
a turning of degrees
toward the world as a better place
the ideology is lofty and illogical
but let us try here at the coal face
to change the axis from hate to love

this once was,
a happy place filled
with love and laughter

now a place,
of dust and tattered cobwebs hanging
where tired memories roam

in place of windows,
boards
in place of floor boards,
dirt

with  pools of slimed
water stagnant, standing
from the ceiling, opened
to the weather and time...

a broken falling down place
in middle of overgrown plot

rusting chains
of swaying swing,
jangle in blowing breeze
wooden splinters,
from old decrepit seat scattered on the ground

there were once,
children here
this was once,
a happy place,
a home

it was, was it not?

i place the configuration
of bones,
commonly known as hands
against the convex cusp
of my cheek,
then place the whole mad
contraption ,
elbow first onto the bench,
that seperates you
the bartender,
from me,
the person wishing,
to inhale copious amounts
of alcohol....
and say in my finest
of linguistic stylings....
"can i  ave  another....of
da ***** mules....ta

.....muchly luv...."


upon your denial,
of my well worded request,
i being both,
discombobulated and distraught,
cry,
into some one else's beer,
before leaving,
to stagger and stumble home....

where i puke $73.00+ dollars,
worth of cocktails,
into the porcelian bowl
of the only restroom,
in the apartment...

breakfast with my mother
is now a song of
tapping,clinking noise
as the tremor in her hands
grow beyond the medications
control

she will be 85 within month
and has become small and birdlike in appetite

conversations have become
vocal exercises in loud short
projections
but she is not deaf
the world has just stopped
speaking clearly

her eyes
have seen so much,
her heart
has encompassed both
great joys
and deep sorrows

the sharp cutting edges of
her mind
are now becoming
butter knifes
it saddens me to know
her mental acuity
is dwindling like yarn
unraveling
to pool in a
muddled mess
of colour on
the dusty floor

i watch her
over my coffee cup
we are so
different and disparate
i once truly believed
my self
to be anothers child
our personalities
were so divided by lifes spectrum
but as i muse now
as a mother myself
watching her
it comes to me
if i am just an inkling
of her strength and grace
then i am an amazon
incarnate
incarnate

stymied,
i sit in the library
surrounded by words
but ....yet
               nothing of worth
comes to me....
instead i write this missive
all the while knowing....
it is the drivel of a mind
confounded....stumped
....run dry...

it occurs to me...i write
more of the act of putting
pen to paper,
than aught else at present

and that i well may be
caught in a meta maze
of my own making....

i feel my wells have run dry
and what i write here and now
is but mud and slime scraped from the murky depths.....

i excuse this muck  as the product of a long year....
not enough time
distractions of the
overly emotional type

but am secretly scared
that i have come to the
end of my ink
that i will succumb to
poesis nullaris
and not ever write
                                    again....

or worse....write
dreck, drivel, and bad rhyme

stymied......
                 stymied
whispers the gnome within
my ear...

it is the little things
that consume me...
the daily minutea
that others miss...
or deem discardable.
it is these.....
small moments
i am drawn to..
that.. i focus on......
as the big picture sails by
piccolo thoughts
and lilliputian dreams...
.... engage me.
encouraging me to ..
flights of fancy....  
expansive in expression...
....snatches of conversation
half finished gestures.....
are bread and butter
.... sustaining me.
...tiny bits of tree twiglet,
when they grow...
what stories could they tell.
a christmas stamp stuck to the
cement pavement...
i would hate to pay
the postage on sending that package.
always...and always
in the back of my mind....
the sea....
full of teeming....
tiny floaty things for me...
to inadeaquately... describe
and love... i write love  well....
then there are....
.... the familys forgotten moments
...gathered by my quill
we..... as poets... are life's truest horder's .....inscribing life on sky and tree.....
we see and hold....
....and feel and scry.
the minikens... of all .....mankind
with little.. splot, spotches..? of inkspots ..joined to form a line.
of words to open hearts...
..and free encumbered mind

the god of rain
just struck his drum
once twice and then once
more.....
the sound reverberates
and cracks the clouds
then down, down
pour his minions
drop by thousand drop...
to attack the land
with grand and furious passion.....
the sky alive with water
warriors and giant rattling
spears,
of light and anger,
hurled from cloud to cloud...

we watch, entranced from
our bunker, by the sea
as this god rails at the world
with mispent futility....

for with the rising of the sun
the night storms god... day is done...

the night, so still,
so close....
the surf holds it's breath.
clouds, hide the small crescent of the moon.....
and it is just, the blucat
and i still awake...
he, is curled, in upon himself and has only one eye,
half, open.....
one last chapter....and then a cup of peppermint tea.
and i shall be, done...
i am sure, the world can...
move, forward...
....to a new  dawn
while,  we here, slumber on....